


Pseudoscience

by Jennifer-Oksana (JenniferOksana)



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Dirty Talk, F/F, Femslash, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Romance, Slash, Smut, Wolfram & Hart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-22
Updated: 2015-10-22
Packaged: 2018-04-27 12:50:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5049262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JenniferOksana/pseuds/Jennifer-Oksana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dirty talk and compromise. Just another summer night in LA.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pseudoscience

Fred has been learning to compromise herself: her ideas, her ethics, her notions of the way things should be. Fred is finding herself blurry and grey and not quite right in places. There’s not much fun in it; mostly it involves watching another ideal shrivel and die, and sometimes Fred wishes she were still living her so-called illusions.

But then there’s Willow, and learning to find a balance with her, and that’s the kind of compromising that’s not only fun, but is probably good for Fred.

Today, for example. Today, Fred is learning what it feels like for the whole world to be shimmery with magick on a Wednesday night, a hot sort of night that usually would send Fred scampering to the air conditioning. She’s from Texas; it’s on from May ’til October because it has to be.

But Willow, who’s from a world where it’s only necessary in parts of August and September, says she can’t feel the world properly with the A/C on. Fred, for the moment, is leaving it off.

After all, feeling Willow blow against Fred’s ear, her cheek, her neck, is awfully cooling. Except where it’s warming, and what’s the use of air conditioning if you’re just going to get sweaty anyway?

“Mmm,” Fred says. “That feels so nice.”

Willow lifts Fred’s mass of long, dark hair off the back of her neck, her slender fingers transmitting prickles down Fred’s skin in shuddery little lines. Her skin’s so electric, dancing atoms magnetized by the Willow-touch, causing chain reactions of lust, need, and desire.

“I could read the map of the world from you,” Willow murmurs throatily as Fred’s hair falls against her left shoulder, thick and heavy and mostly soft against bare skin. “From your skin.”

Her lips caress sensitized skin on Fred’s neck, right near her throat. Everything’s throbbing in rhythm with Fred’s heartbeat, which is going like mad, because Willow has warm lips that make the delicate hairs on Fred’s nape shivery shuddery and her body ticklish.

“I like this,” Fred answers, her mouth very dry as her tongue tries to wet her lips over and over, looking at them in the mirror in the corner. Willow’s fingers are on her shoulder, tracing her upper arm, and her mouth kisses Fred’s neck and throat, nuzzling. The buzz from it–kisses and magick and the presence of someone warm against her makes Fred drunk with all the power that’s coming off Willow as thick as desire. “I want you to do more.”

Willow laughs and the vibrations from the sound, from the feeling against Fred’s shoulder are dizzyingly sweet. Fred wonders how they can be so relaxed, wearing just bras and panties, and Willow is easing one white cotton strap away from Fred’s body, trying to reveal everything. It’s so new, and at the same time, it’s second nature. Body against body. Action, reaction. Of course she should let go. Yes.

“You’re so pretty,” Willow says, slipping two fingers underneath Fred’s bra, rubbing against the nipple. “Warm. Very warm. Like apple pie.”

The joke earns a drowsy laugh from both of them that’s less silly than it should be, because Fred’s aware that yes, she’s very much like apple pie in places where Willow’s hands and mouth aren’t yet. Maybe it should be naughtier or cornier. But Willow is teasing Fred’s breast with her fingers, making the nipple hard. It’s getting Fred all tingly, everything starting to float even as Fred’s hyper-aware of the whole world. The sparkly energy that is Willow that’s got them both caught up in a current, it’s taking Fred as its own, making them move together. Fred’s body straining against Willow’s touch, so relaxed and yet building up this wet hot feeling. More. There has to be more.

Fred’s flushed–so, so very flushed, head all askew–but she feels content to let the need drift over her, getting stronger every minute. Does Willow mind that she’s so non-reciprocating at first? It’s not that she doesn’t want to. The image of Willow’s kisses on her mouth, Fred’s own hands taking off Willow’s pretty lace bra, these are things that excite all the particles. And yet she’s lost in the way Willow sucking on her neck and the sound Fred’s own mouth is making, kittenish whimpers that don’t belong in her throat at all.

“Do you like this?” Willow asks against Fred’s ear.

“Yes,” Fred gasps, her back arching. “Oh, don’t stop that–”

But Willow’s hand is on top of Fred’s, and her lips are tugging Fred’s earlobe into her mouth while Fred gasps and whimpers, and that hand is guiding Fred’s past the waistband of Fred’s panties.

“Show me how to touch you,” she says, her hand so close to where Fred wants it, and both of their bodies are trembling with all the electricity, all the power that’s being shared between them. “Let me see how you do it.”

It’s not as easy as it seems. Fred has to shimmy down and adjust their hands, tilt her hips funny...but Willow seems patient and keeps tickling Fred’s skin with her lips, making Fred’s hips buck and roll.

And Fred is so hot and so wet when their fingers push inside, thrusting in deep and then out again.

“God,” is all Fred says, biting her lip. They do it again, in and out, so many fingers in such a small space making her feel very good, full is such a silly word, but hell. Full. Both of them inside of her, in and out, and pausing at all the spots Fred likes to stop at. The ones that make waves into spikes, little hotspots of almost-orgasmic touch.

Fred sees them in the mirror, and she looks like she’s going to lose her mind, her face hot and red and her mouth open and big with one breast completely exposed and the tiniest bit of hair showing from how they’ve got the panties scrunched. Her hips thrust forward at the very hotness of it.

“Talk to me, Fred,” Willow says, sounding a little cross.

“I like it,” Fred squeaks. “Harder. Do it harder.”

And Willow does. “It’s funny that we don’t babble during sex,” she says, her thumb just grazing Fred’s clit. “Harder. Do it harder. I like it. God. Not so many words now.”

“Do you want me to?” Fred asks, feeling her stomach flutter. She doesn’t mind talking dirty; it’s just that whole girl on girl thing and memories of watching bootleg crappy porn after smoking up with the boys and she’s not gonna get all hot and bothered that way.

“Not if you don’t like to,” Willow says, thrusting in deeper. “You’re so wet, baby. I know you like it a lot.”

“Maybe we’re culturally conditioned not to,” Fred muses, reveling at the feel of fingers in her pussy, at her hand guiding fingers toward her clit. “Or just embarrassed because the kind of girl who talks dirty is not the kind of girl I imagine myself to be. I mean, does it turn you on to hear me moan, oh baby, oh baby finger my clit like that cuz I’m gonna come hard?”

Willow giggles, and Fred rocks back against her, feeling Willow’s breasts and the hard nipples against her back, getting all smooshed, and the electricity’s crackling faster now.

“Well, no, not exactly that,” Willow reasons. “But you’re all hot and flushed with my hands on you. Would you like it more if your hand was touching your breast right now? Or if my other hand was on your thigh? Like, these are questions that are mostly, y’know, academic, but they kind of do the turning-on thing. Hey, your smart talk turns me on, because it’s you.”

“I want to suck on your fingers,” Fred says. “After. I want to taste and then–I dunno, I want to lick down your whole body until it’s as wet as I want your pussy to be when I lick it.”

Willow swallows hard. “Better dirty talk.”

“Yay me,” Fred answers, arching into Willow’s touch. “Come on, baby. Please give it to me. I need a little more–”

The world dissolves. Explodes. Becomes dancing sparkles as all those overexcited nerves respond orgasmically to one last slide of Willow and Fred fingers and snap, Fred’s neck goes back, and oh, she starts to moan because words are too hard when your whole body is pulsing and tensing around fingers.

“Yum,” Fred says when she can speak again, feeling the current calming down, getting in control, something that she can use now. “Happy.”

“Yum?” Willow asks, snickering. “Synaesthesia much?”

Fred turns around and kisses Willow, all sweaty-sticky, wet, and very happy. “But smart girls are such a turn-on,” she drawls. “I get hungry. And horny.”

“You’re all surprises, aren’t you?” Willow asks when she pulls away. “A whole big box.”

Fred lifts Willow’s wrist and licks her fingers. “Yeah,” she agrees breathlessly as she tears off Willow’s bra. “Let’s see what I’ve got up my sleeve.”

No one’s ever accused Fred of being anything but a quick study, after all.


End file.
